The Space Between

There’s a hush in the room— a sacred silence when she sleeps. Not peace, but a question, a pause in the middle of myself. The books lie open, unwritten. The page waits. The words I once longed to drown in stand still, like strangers in the hall, while I hover near—unsure if I should enter. I used to know myself in chapters, in sentences, in deadlines and degrees. Now I measure time in naps, in cries, in the soft weight of her needing me. And I wonder— if I gave my whole heart to the page, would I resent the tiny hands that pull me away? Would I ache for what I couldn’t finish, or learn to breathe in the fragments? Maybe this is the work. Not the stories left undone, but the soul—undone and remade in the quiet surrender of being hers. I mourn the girl who chased bylines, whose name meant something on paper. But I honor the woman who answers to Mama, who finds strength in lullabies and long nights. Sacrifice isn’t glamorous. It’s silent. Lonely. Slow. It’s the stretching of spirit in a world that doesn’t clap for what no one sees. But growth was never meant to feel like glory. It feels like letting go, again and again— and trusting that losing yourself might be how you find something far more whole.